The One With Thomas and Something Nasty

As you know potty training has finally gone into full swing here in the Randomhousehold. 

The boy has decided he will now do wees' on the potty but, to quote Pirate Pete's potty book, "he's finding doing a poo much harder".

That's ok. We can live with that. It's a letting go thing. I've read it's quite common. I'm just excited that he'll do anything at all. So excited in fact that I have employed some top comedy parenting skills and taught him to say 'ta dah' when he rises triumphantly from his potty after doing a wee. 

It's a sight to behold! 

Lemon Cake Lady suggested he add a bow or some showbiz jazz hands as well, but we don't want to completely, and quite literally, take the piss do we! 

Today however we had a breakthrough. The boy was out in Nanny P's garden when he asked Grandad Atu for the potty. A rarity in itself, as he normally waits for us to ask him if he needs to go. Unfortunately the boy couldn't wait and by the time Grandad had got back he'd curled one out on the path.

But hey it's a start! He didn't ask for a nappy and he 'let one go' to coin a phrase. And at least this time he hadn't started moulding it like some organic, hippy Play Doh! 

You see the other day I went to empty the potty of wee in the bathroom and came back to be presented with Thomas the Tank Engine looking a bit grubby,

"Thomas has fallen in the mud Mummy" said the sweet voice of the boy as he presented me with the train "He needs a wash down"

"Honey what is that? Where did you get mud from in the lounge? Oh my god that's not mud is it? It's poo!"

The boy had obviously done a teeny, tiny little poo after his wee whilst I was out of the room, scooped it up and pressed it into the wheels, fender, firebox and funnel of poor old Thomas the Tank Engine! 

Not so much 'Thomas, he's the cheeky one' as 'Thomas, he's the shitty one.' 

I quickly ascertained that he hadn't put his fingers in his mouth and then performed not so much of a wash down as a mass clean up operation of boy, carpet, sofa and train. 

We then had a long talk about about how we don't play with poo and poo isn't mud. It's poo. And poo is dirty with lots of germs that can make us ill. So don't play with it, you cute but rather poo obsessed boy. 

God bless the Dettol wipe is all I can say. 

Much like life, it's amazing how a little bit of shit can go such a long way isn't it! 

The One With The Blurred Lines

Every Sunday evening I listen to the Top 40 as I cook dinner. It's a throwback from my childhood, when I had a Sunday night bath and hair wash before another school week and Mum wasn't allowed to put the hair dryer on until I'd heard who was number 1.

I lived for the Top 40. Who'd gone up, who'd gone down, non movers and new entries. I soaked it all in as I lay in the bath and would memorise the Top 10 for the whole of the next week, ready to reel it off to anyone who'd listen. 

Nowadays I haven't a clue who anyone is, but recently I like the Robin Thicke Blurred Lines song. 

You know the one. That one. The one with the nudey rudey video which it didn't need to sell it because it's such a catchy tune (or choon as the youngsters say) anyway. 

I've downloaded it onto my I-Tunes - well just the song, not the video, although I've seen the video and those women are fit. Especially the brunette. Oh come on - you know who I mean and as Ken always says "There's a little bit of lezza in all of us!"

Anyway I don't play it in front of the boy as it's got "language" in it. But of course the tame version has been played on the radio all the time.

Despite it's potentially misogynistic lyrics, when it comes on in the car I am guilty of turning it up with the comment,

"Oh Mummy likes this one"

Of course the boy is a sponge for anything vaguely musical and loves nothing better than a good song to get his perfectly formed milk teeth into!

So he's obviously been taking note, as I discovered the other day when, in the middle of Waitrose - the poshest and quietest  of all the supermarkets - he proceeded to sing at the top of his voice,

"Oh I know you want it, I know you want it, cos you're a good girl. Want it. Oh I know you want it. Good girl"

Over and over again!

Now I love it that he picks up songs so quickly and easily, but I didn't realise he was taking any notice of the radio. I thought if it wasn't a Thomas the Tank Engine song or Postman Pat's Special Delivery Service he wasn't interested. But it would seem the lines between just listening to children's songs and taking notice of pop songs have become... um.. blurred. 

Maybe I need to watch what I have on in future as we drive around in the car! 

As for these Blurred Lines I think I'd better teach him a new song.

Anyone got the lyrics handy for "Baby Got Back"? 

The One With All The Changes of Clothes

By George, I think he's got it!

I bring exciting news. After a year and a half of cajoling, bribing, talking about it and reading Pirate Pete's Potty book over and over and again at bedtime, until I could probably write you a 10,000 word thesis on it's main themes and imagery, the boy has started to do wee wees on the potty.

Of his own accord. Happily. Without screaming.

He's also suddenly embraced the idea of big boy pants. Previously, when I was trying every single trick conceivable to tempt him to start potty training, I took him to buy his very own big boy pants. We went to the stand where they were and I asked if he'd like the ones with guitars on or monsters on? He actually physically turned his back on the display and screamed NO!!

I had a feeling he still wasn't ready to give up nappies just yet.

But this week, well he's like a different little boy. A switch has gone click in his brain. For weeks we've all been telling him if he does a wee wee on the potty he can have Hiro (yes that is how you spell it)  from Thomas The Tank Engine. "Hiro of the Rails" is the film of choice at present so Hiro is a big deal. He knew the engine was upstairs. I'd shown him the bag he was in. Hiro even went back and forth in Nanny P's handbag when the boy went over there in case he suddenly decided to comply at her house.

Then this Monday morning. Eureka! So Hiro was given as an instant reward as promised. The boy had a glazed at us with a look of 'Oh shit, they weren't bluffing. They hung out for the wee wees but now I've got the prize" and this seems to have done the trick.

Of course this first week has not been without it's little accidents. 

On Tuesday I took his own potty to nursery and there was only one change of clothes required. He'd done exceptionally well on only his second day without nappies.

Today was a nursery morning again but in my hurry to leave the house in the pouring rain I forgot the potty. What I believe they call an epic Mummy fail. 

Never mind, they have plenty of potties at nursery he'll use one of those and I've packed about 5 spare pairs of pants and joggers, he's only there until lunchtime. He'll be fine.

When I went to pick him up at 12.30 he was dressed as a power ranger! He was perfectly happy and greeted me with his usual gusto but he was dressed in a black, rather grubby, power ranger costume. 

Something wee based had obviously occurred. At least 5 times.

"Oh hello." said one of his key workers 'I'll just go and get his slip and see what he ate today?"

What he ate? Are you kidding me? With the best will in the world I'm not that arsed about what he ate. I'd rather know why my son is dressed as a Power Ranger. Or at least have it acknowledged as the first thing we discuss as they hand him back over to me. 

"He just had the broccoli today I'm afraid. He wasn't too bothered about the BBQ chicken."

"Was he not." I replied "And....?"

" He did have all his dessert. I can't remember what that was. Would you like me to find out?"

"Nah you're alright. Anything else you want to tell me maybe...?

" He's enjoyed "Harry and the Bucket Full of Dinosaurs" story today too."

"Lovely. He rocks a dinosaur does the boy. So how's the.. er... potty training gone today?"

"Ah yes. I'm afraid he wouldn't use our potties so there's been a few accidents."

"Just a few hey."

"Yes. Probably best to bring his own potty in next week. And you can bring... umm that back... when you next come in too" she added indicating the fancy dress costume.

"I'll give it a wash. Bye"

"Yes bye. He's had a lovely morning though."

I'm sure he had. He's been soaked in his own piss and dressed as a super hero for most of it. That's a good morning out for a 3 year old boy.

"Have you enjoyed being a Power Ranger" I asked as we left

"Can I take it off now please?" he said

"When we get home darling" 

"Can we go and get a Freddo at the shop?"

"Maybe not today baby. We'll find some chocolate at home for when you next do a wee wee on your potty. Yes."

"Yes."

And to be fair, he's been back to a mean, keen, weeing machine since he got his own throne back this afternoon. 

Go, go Power Rangers.....

The One with CBeebies

Amazingly I've not blogged about children's TV before. Remarkable really when you consider it's pretty much all I watch nowadays. By the time the boy has gone to bed and we've prepared, eaten and cleared up after dinner I'm too tired to watch anything that requires more than a modicum of brain power so I tend to just go to sleep. Or bugger about on Twitter. Either way I can't follow anything that requires me to think.

To be fair I've never had the patience for plot, so long films and 8 part dramas were never my thing. It's lazy of me I know, but I quite literally can't be arsed.

Maybe that's why I love CBeebies. Nothing's longer than 25 minutes tops and most shows are about 10. This is obviously meant to appeal to the short attention span of the average toddler but it's perfect for me too. Lemon Cake Lady says I have the brain of a four year old boy, certainly I have the same sense of humour, so she may well be right.

Remembering the childhood TV programmes of my era, they were an odd mix. We look back fondly at children's TV from the 70's and 80's and berate todays offerings as rubbish, but there are many similarities. You've only got to think about the iconic and seemingly drug fuelled "Magic Roundabout" and then look at current hippie yoga inspired "Waybuloo's" to realise very little changes.

They messed about with "Waybuloo" once. Never again. There was a national outcry. They used the voice over man from "Come Dine With Me" and apparently toddlers were screaming, crying and hiding behind the sofa for hours afterwards. They shelved the rest of the entire series after only one episode. They've never been shown.

That's the power of children's TV. Or more importantly the power TV has over children and the power children have over TV!

Along with "Waybuloo", another permanent fixture of the CBeebies bedtime hour is "In The Night Garden' - if you thought you'd taken LSD with "Waybuloo" you're in for the acid trip of a lifetime with this one! 

For a start nothing is to scale! One minute the teeny, tiny Pontipine family and their next door neighbours The Wottingers, (who I can only assume are part of the witness protection scheme they come out of their house so rarely), are bigger than the Ninky Nonk and the Pinky Ponk (are you keeping up there at the back?), then the next minute the much larger  characters of that hussy Upsy Daisy and those flashers who permanently lose their trousers (yeah that old story - sorry officer I lost my trousers) The Tomliboos are having a ride on them. 

If that not enough to do your head in after a day with a pre-schooler take a look at the hero of the piece, one Mr Iggle Piggle. Remind you of anyone?

Look at that face. He's the spit of someone isn't he....

Get that pint drunk or Makka Pakka's OCD will go into overdrive and he'll have cleaned your glass before you can say " Same again please Upsy Daisy you saucy wench and how about pulling that cord that makes your skirt go up and shows off your knickers for the lads? Oh and I appear to have left my kids in the pub toilet.. ah well never mind."

You never see them in the same room do you and now you know why.

Then there's Balamory! What's the Story in Balamory? I don't know about the story but I know  if you ply Lemon Cake Lady with enough Aspall's cider she's sing you the dirty words to PC Plum's song she made up.

It's starts,

"I'm PC Plum and I take it up the bum..." and basically goes down hill from there. Mind you I can talk as I find myself singing under my breath...

"Tree Fu Tom. Likes it up his bum.."

Never mind not letting children watch too much kids TV, it's has a funny affect on the adults too. And I haven't even started on Mr Tumble.....

Bedtime hour!!! It's enough to give you nightmares.....

The One With It All Over The Place

Home is a bit testing at the moment.

Hubby has to be away quite a bit for his work. 

We are having building work done.

Oscar the cat has decided to start marking his territory in the house because another cat, known by us as Bob (her real name is Fluffy she doesn't look like a Fluffy, she's Bob - short for Kate) , has decided to adopt us and virtually lives outside on our windowsill. 

This means that right by the window, underneath the desk where I sit and work, write blogs, do social media and generally bugger about on the computer, it stinks of piss. Actual piss. Cat piss. Which stinks! 

And the boy refuses to use the potty. He just holds the wee/poo in and screams for a nappy on until I can take no more and have to give in because quite frankly I think he's uncomfortable and in pain bless him. 

I've got one that won't wee and one that won't stop!

You can see why I'm a bit fraught at present.

So the other day hubby was away and I was bathing the boy. 

Before his bath I asked him if he needed to go and use the potty.

"No, I want a nappy on." was his reply.

I've heard it all before and I thought, he's now having a bath I'm not putting a nappy on, so I ploughed on. 

Big mistake!

We have a downstairs bathroom with a small lobby between that and the kitchen, then the dining room is beyond that. You can stand in my dining room and see right through quite clearly to the bath, so after washing the boys hair etc I set the timer on the microwave for 5 more minutes playing and went to the dining room to fold washing.

I'd been folding away for no more than a couple of minutes when the boy shot up and in a startled voice cried out,

"Mummy, I want to get out. I want to get out!"

"But you've got a few minutes left to play darling if you want."

"NO! I WANT TO GET OUT"

The boy then started lobbing handfuls of something out of the water.

I rushed into the bathroom and the sight that greeted me was like the Battle of the Somme, 

"What's that on the floor?" I thought. Oh god Oscar's not had a crap in the bathroom has he? No, it's everywhere (and I mean everywhere), maybe the cat's been sick. But he can't have been, he's upstairs and anyway I've been watching the whole time. 

Bear in mind this all went through my head in a split second and with no great cohesion because the boy was howling and scooping up armfuls of dirty water and poo and throwing them out of the bath and onto the bathroom floor.

Tiles, bath mat, towels, floor, the pedestal on the sink, bath toys and the boy himself were all covered in shit.

Actual shit! 

Not just a poo in the bath you can scoop up with a jug and flush away in one swift and solid movement.

Oh no. The boy had, had a poo-naumi on a epic scale. 

This thing was so wide spread it had its own postcode.

Poor little fella looked like he'd been bathing in it for hours not just 30 seconds or so. New Lynx Poo for Men - guaranteed to repel yucky girls and traumatise your mother. 

It was all over his body, in his hair, on his face, in truth it was as if the last 15 minutes of bath time had never happened. Poor little fella was frightened so I had to keep as calm as I could whilst saying over and over again, 

"Don't put your fingers in your mouth, don't put your fingers in your mouth." 

You know sometimes when you're faced with a situation that involves a load of mess and you just don't know where to start? That's how I felt. 

Do I lift the hysterical boy out of the shit infested water onto a floor covered in shit infested water and then clean it all up at the end? 

Or do I wipe the floor of it's shit infested water first, hose him down with the shower then lift him out, effectively cleaning the shit infested water up as I go?

Or do I run about in a panic, crying and screaming,

"Everything's covered in shit, everything's covered in shit!!"

I think I did the middle one and tried to clean the boy, the bathroom and poor old Raa Raa the Noisy Lion bath toy who'd copped it, as we went along. 

In my head I was doing the crying and screaming option, right up until after everything and everyone had been scrubbed down within an inch of their lives, bath toys were in a bucket of disinfectant and the bath was full of dettol and boiling hot water. 

I was still inwardly crying and screaming as the now clean boy snuggled next to me with his milk and stories and even later on in the evening when I poured a glass of wine and shuddered at what had happened.

Don't get me wrong. I can clean up shit. I can clean up shit with the best of them. Shit I can do.

But you've heard the expression "A shower of shit!" - well that's nothing compared to bathtub full of the stuff. 

The One With All The Work

I have been neglecting you. 

I'm very sorry. I truly am.

I love my blog very much but at the end of the day I'm just too bushed to write anymore stuff.

You see my writing business seems to be really flourishing.

I'm busy.

Proper busy!

Last night in bed, just before we went to sleep hubby asked me what I had on work wise tomorrow,

"I'm pitching to new client at 10, then I'm writing up a proposal for another client, before I go to meet my web designer at 12.30 about copy for two other mutual clients of ours.'

Hubby feel silent for a few moments.

"Christ!" he exclaimed "That's like proper grown up shit."

Whether the shit is bull or otherwise I'm not sure, but after I'd said it I have to admit I did think, oh blimey that does sound rather good. I'll be applying for The Apprentice next and declaring myself Project Manager at every available opportunity. Then I realised it made me sound a bit of a knob so I shut up. 

All this seems a million miles away from years of trying to make my colleagues laugh, by buggering about doing pretend weather forecasts at the big map of the world on the wall behind the printer, and randomly surprising them with e-mails with pictures of bits of raw meat attached to them. 

Can you tell my heart wasn't really in it?

Of course now if I don't work I don't get paid and you'd be amazed what a motivational tool that is. In my old job, my motivational tool was a picture of a giant cock and balls I'd drawn on a post it note, which I used to pass to Ken when she was on the phone to a customer to put her off. 

Tool. Get it? 

Christ I was desperate wasn't I!

But don't think for one moment I have turned into a ball breaking, career bitch, with sky high heels, shoulder pads and a "can do" attitude, girlfriend. (I really can't pull that girlfriend thing off can I).

No, I still stumble about, running 10 minutes late for everything, slobbing about in jeans that are too big round the bum and need hoiking up every 10 seconds and worst and most unprofessional of all, needing to wee the moment I arrive anywhere!

Working from home can be a lonely existence so going out to meet clients, either at their offices, or for a very civilised beverage in a coffee shop, is great. 

But try as I might, even if I go before I leave, or don't drink anything an hour before the meeting, it doesn't make any difference, the first thing I say to any new prospective client is,

"Pleased to meet you. Do you mind if I use your loo?"

Hardly gives the impression of a together business women does it, walking in with my legs crossed and a pained expression on my face.

Then of course some of these offices are quite small. The loo is just off where the meeting is going to be. Not only have I just dashed in and demanded to use their facilities before I've even taken my coat off, but now I have to suffer the indignity of them being able to hear me peeing like a racehorse. 

It could be nerves. It could be habit. It could, and more likely, be that, since having the boy my bladder has taken on the capacity of a small child and the liquid retaining qualities of a sieve.

It's hard to know what it is, but I'm pretty sure Karen Brady doesn't rush into the boardroom of a morning and the first thing she says is,

"I'm just going for a slash Lord Sugar. Don't fire anyone until I get back.'

I may have abandoned my old jokey office ways but even with the new professional business woman me, there still always a whiff of taking the piss wherever I go! 

The One With The Holiday Packing

At the end of last week I was delighted that Tesco Magazine published a review article I had written for them, all about a weekend away in the New Forest.

http://www.tescomagazine.com/living/holidays/oakdene-forest-park-review.html

Tellingly the article starts with these words:

"Travelling with a toddler isn’t always the most relaxing experience. Packing for a holiday with one is a military operation!"

I hate holiday packing. I find it really stressful. It actually impacts on the first day or so of my holiday because I am so stressed. 

I make lists. I tick things off. I highlight the stuff I have yet to do, or shop for, or wash, or find, or mend. I start days in advance. I have lists for me and separate lists for the boy. I have lists for things that need doing at home before we go. I have lists for things that need doing for work before we go. 

Hubby does all his own packing for the love of Pete! (this is the boys latest saying, a cross between hubby's "For the love of God" and my favourite "For Pete's sake") 

Still everything seems to need doing at the last minute! And we end up leaving about 3 hours later than we planned, because I'm still running around packing things, whilst crying and pulling out great clumps of my hair in anger and frustration.

How can that be?

Am I in fact spending all my time writing lists and not actually putting anything in a suitcase?

We have two holidays planned this year, one early summer (summer..HA!) and one later in the autumn. Both are in this country so there's no weight allowances to trouble us. We should be able to just load up the car and go.

Whether we do it with relative ease or whether I have a melt down worthy of my 3 year old boy remains to be seen!

Does anyone else hate packing for holidays with toddlers? I'd love to hear if you have any tips that will stop me becoming a gibbering, weeping wreck of a woman before I even get in the car....